


Growth

by holhorsinaround



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: (we irritating voice) we druidin, Goretober, agender masc lead, plant growth gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holhorsinaround/pseuds/holhorsinaround
Summary: Written as a companion piece to a piece of art done for goretober!32 year old tries to learn Druidism, hurts himself in the process





	Growth

The druid sat on a fallen log well past the forest treeline, under thicker branches where very little sunlight streamed down through the leaves. It offered more privacy, he felt. He didn't feel as seen as if it were daylight around him.

He had removed his upper uniform and under shirt. The cool breeze of the forest nipped at his skin and fur but otherwise nothing more than a shiver made its way across his frame. He tilted his head back, looking up at the leaves, then lowered his gaze back down to his lap. 

His druidism had never been strong, and nothing seemed easy for him to create, to force, to restore. He'd made a promise to himself earlier on in the year, however, and as he sat, he laid his hands across his thighs, palms up, and stared down at them. Earlier on before facing Teldrassil for a second time, he'd had a conversation with Galletta about worship, and how if you dedicated yourself, whoever-- whatever-- you worshipped would not turn away from you.

He wondered how true that had been.

His head tilted back once more, his lips muttering silent words slowly in Zandali; he wasn't sure what to say, but he spoke quietly to the trees themselves, asking for their aid, their guidance.

It had been near twenty years since he had sat down and practiced any form of druidism with a trainer, and far longer since he had practiced any form of restoration druidism with a trainer. It left him at a loss-- how did the others call on the strength of Azeroth's deepest innate powers? He was turning thirty three within the next couple of months, and it felt to him like he was five again, learning how to make ripples across the water surface, how to draw the tree branches down from the tree top.

His wonder began to shift; with the Night Warrior ritual, his emotions had become quick and dirty, hasty, stronger. He began to feel anger, fast in his mind and directed at his tribe, his late father. Had he grown up with the Splinterbine, how different would he have been? Would he have been kinder, stronger as a druid, not a war criminal?

His anger began to manifest further, this time changing into thoughts that focused on his druidism proper. Angry, lashing tendrils, strong roots raising up from the ground, water crashing through the bedrock and eroding it into pebbles. Reeds biting at ankles, tearing through skin, feeding the dirt with blood.

Something within his chest broke open as the thoughts grew vivid in his mind, and searing, warm pain sprung up through his palms under his gloves. A bubble of heat filled the leather and he tore at it, his bare nails digging against the material and letting it drop to the ground.

Green erupted from his inner palm, across the scarring of his right hand, and thick, twisting fibers began to morph out from the red, pooling blood. He clenched his fingers as the pain grew, then grit his teeth and willed it further. Within his mind, somewhere far and distant behind the pain, a voice-- strong, guiding, and authoritative-- broke into his concentration.

_Let the anger guide you into your own peace._

He sat up straighter as the tendrils worked from within his palms, the pain hot and weakening his senses. The plant growth cracked and creaked as it was formed into existence, and blood dripped down his wrist to his elbow.

Slowly, pricks of pain gathered across his forearm, up to his bicep and shoulder, and then his chest. The vines protruded and stuck back into his skin, coiling across his arm. The same pain began to form in his left palm, though not as strong or intense.

Despite the pain and the heat of the wounds, of coiling from within his arm and palm unseen, and the furrow of his brow, his teeth grit into a grin.

These weren't little wisps of reeds in the Barrens that he controlled against the wind. They weren't roots that he tangled up from the muck to wrap around a siren. 

They came from his own flesh and blood, were as much a part of him as he was them.

For once he felt in control of something he'd manifested into reality. His dark eyes glinted, a darker grin passing his lips as he muttered under his breath. "I've made my peace."


End file.
